


Falling, Catching

by undercovercaptain



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Being cute but also angsty coz WINTER IS HERE, Do i regret it? No, F/M, Winterfell times, did I read too much about winter vegetables and foraged foods as prep for this? yes, i now know how to store carrots in a root cellar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercovercaptain/pseuds/undercovercaptain
Summary: He could never get used to her. To him she seemed fresh every time, a casket full of mysteries. At moments when she trusted him the most, when she felt safest, she would open herself up, revealing to him some essential thing, some hidden facet at the core of her very  being, at the very centre of her memory, likewise shedding light upon his own life, his own memory — to the things he was longing to know, longing to remember. To the one thing he had always wanted.
Relationships: Stannis Baratheon/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 114





	Falling, Catching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarah_Black](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Black/gifts).



> A gift for Sarah, because she's so fab ;) 
> 
> This can be read as potentially further along in my In The Dark series, or as a standalone – up to you!
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf and GRRM)

The wind had begun to rise. Above him, ravens haggled in the air and the trees, the sky a bright cold blue, fading to milk at its edges. Turning right, he strode past the courtyard, mailed knights still sparring, towards the eastern entrance to the castle’s godswood. If his men paid him any mind, if they second glanced his stormy expression, he cared little. From a quarter of a mile away, he could hear the noise of the godswood in the wind; a soft marine roar, the sound of leaf fretting on leaf, and branch rubbing on branch. It put him in mind of Dragonstone, and more distantly, of Storm’s End: the rush and ebb of breaking sea waves, elemental and unchanging.

When he first set out to look for her he had started with the new Maester’s Tower, where she sometimes retreated to go over the castle’s accounts, auburn brow furrowing at sums and lips pursed determinedly. But she was not there. Nor could she be found in the kitchens, assisting the bemused cook and kitchen maids with the making of rosehip syrup; the kind she liked to pour indulgently over her morning porridge, the taste rich and tangy. Nor was she below in the storerooms or the root cellar, looking over the many stacked and sawdust filled crates, checking the late autumn vegetables and fruits for dark spots and bruises. He had checked the Library Tower most reccently, thinking he might find her sitting once more upon the stonework staircase, lost in solemn thought and staring forlornly at the shadowy gaps in the repaired shelves. _But she was not there._

By now winter had lent an edge to the air, light falling from a plain sun, and blowing sideways through it a cold wind. Around him now were big standing groves of green junipers, alders, rowans, and the odd dark ironwood. The soldier pines, with their reptilian bark, gave off a spicy resinous smell as he tramped hurriedly past, twigs snapping underfoot, crushed beneath his leather boots. Between the trees grew swathes of heather and bracken.

Woods to him had always been a place of inbetweenness, and a godswood even more so. They were places where a man might slip from one world to another, or one time to a former. _A time before bloodshed, before grief._ They were places of correspondence, of call and answer. _A wildness that prefaces us, and it will outlive us also._ He hadn’t realised how much one could miss the presence of trees until they had made this place their winter holdfast. Before this he had been subjected to wide spaces, remote and figureless, for what had seemed like an age; blue snow-light falling onto drifts marked with the paw-prints of wolves, marked by the footprints of things not man nor beast.

He did not keep to any gods. Indeed, he saw no comfort in them, no use in them save how they might further his aims, had even burnt the godswood of his father’s seat just to add fuel to the fire of a so-called red one. _It is all folly._ Yet, he could understand why she might find solace here, might believe in some ancient force, might see gods in the faces of trees. Here, where time was kept and curated differently by the trees, so that time was experienced differently when one was among them. There was discretion to trees, and patience. _Forgiveness even._

He heard her before he saw her, a soft fluting voice falling and catching, the way a breeze might carry up the call of a bird:

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most._

It was with relief that he released a pent up breath. _She is in the godswood. She is singing in the godswood._ He could never get used to her. To him she seemed fresh every time, a casket full of mysteries. At moments when she trusted him the most, when she felt safest, she would open herself up, revealing to him some essential thing, some hidden facet at the core of her very being, at the very centre of her memory, likewise shedding light upon his own life, his own memory — to the things he was longing to know, longing to remember. To the one thing he had always wanted.

_The ones who’d been gone for so very long, she couldn’t remember their names. They spun her around on the damp old stones, spun away all her sorrow and pain. And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave…_

Beneath the trees, the hot springs steamed. Warm vapours rose from the earth, shrouding the trees in their moist breath, creeping up the mossy wall of the Guest House to draw grey curtains across the glinting casements. In the largest of the pools, his wife swam lazily, her damp hair darkened to the colour of weirwood leaves. With her back turned to him, too lost in song to be aware of his presence, she held aloft a cupped hand, only to then spread her slender fingers, letting the water fall in trickles.

“Sansa,” he called out, and she jumped at the sound, water splashing.

She turned slowly to face him, feet treading the murky water.

“Husband?”

Heat blossomed at the nape of his neck, despite the cold, as his eyes lingered over the pale slope of her shoulders, darting to the place where a bead of water rested precariously in the hollow of her throat. He coughed, the hard clunk of his boot soles briefly sounding upon the frozen ground. “Any other woman of your birth and station would surely have taken her bath _inside_ ,” he huffed irritably, discomfort rising.

Save for their breaths and the occasional bubble of steam breaking the water’s surface, the only noise he could hear was the creak of the boughs rubbing against each other in the dropping wind. It was now approaching dusk. The coppery clouds pulled slowly overhead, yet were still struck with the light of the lowering sun. _If only for a little while longer._

“Forgive me, I had not intended to, but…” her voice trailed off and she smiled shyly back at him, shaking her head slightly. Her gaze then drifted to a birch basket, placed neatly beside a pile of folded garments, its foraged contents small and sparse within it: rowanberries, scarlet bright against the wood.

He knew all too well how diligent she usually was, how she set out on frosty mornings, his daughter sometimes in tow, searching the trees and bushes for these little treasures. Almost as soon as she was able, she had set to work in the kitchens, preparing and preserving the late autumn harvest: stewing dusty blue sloes and damsons for fruit cheeses and jellies, staining her hands with the velvety dark juices of elderberries for wines and cordials, packing earthenware jars full of preserved pears, and mixing stewed crab apples and blackberries ready for jams. He knew he should not deny her this one indulgence, this one reprieve from castle business, from their endless safeguarding against winter. _But anyone might have come. Anyone might have seen her thus…_

“Out,” he said, gesturing impatiently with one hand. “It darkens.”

“As you say, my lord,” she demurred, taking his proffered hands and rising from the steaming water to stand bare before him.

He had seen her before, had run his hands across her, had cupped and caressed her on many a cold night. Yet still it shocked some prudish part of him, to see her standing thus, or perhaps not prudish, perhaps possessive. _Because no one should see her like this but me. Not even trees._ Releasing the fur cloak from his shoulders, he covered her with it, rubbing her sides and drawing her close.

“I had not meant to be gone so long.”

“You were missed, it is why I came looking for you.”

“I’m sorry, I just—” she paused as he helped her with her shift and woollen gown, slipping it over her now shivering shoulders. “I know now that life is often more fantastic and terrible than the stories I used to believe in as a child…but I felt…I just…today I found no harm in finding magic among the trees for once, at least for a little while.” Her voice was quiet and hushed like the leaves as she blinked up at him with a solemn look in her eyes.

“I’m not chastising you, not truly,” he replied, voice just as low. “I only worry for you. For you know that I…you know how I…” he bit his tongue and grimaced slightly, irritated with himself, before calming: “It pleases me to have you close at hand. And Shireen, Shireen, she asked for you, she—”

She caught his lips in a kiss, soft as a robin’s wing, silencing him.

“Come, help me dress,” she said later, a small smile playing at her lips. “For it darkens, and I can taste snow in the air.”

As they walked, the snow came just as she said: light flakes ticking down through the air, settling upon every upturned surface. With her arm in his, a flake fell down onto the dark leather of his jerkin, and melted into it, like a ghost passing through a wall. Soon the snow was coming faster, and they lengthened their strides to escape it; cold hands pressed tight. Around them the snow fell, beyond the castle roofs, more heavily and more softly, so that it seemed strange that so much motion could provoke so little sound.

By the time they reached their hearth-warmed chambers her dress hung heavy and wet against her skin. With little pretence she hurried to slide off her sodden stockings and step out of her snow stained gown and shift, just as he sat down by the fire to unlace his boots and unbutton his jerkin, before rising to pull his damp shirt over his head. He was unaware of their bare skin until she stepped closer and he felt her soft hand at the small of his back.

“Better?” she asked.

“Aye.”

She reached up over his shoulder where his skin was still cool to the touch, and when she pressed her nose into the crook of his neck, melted snow clung in droplets to his beard.

Through the window, the evening air appeared dense, each snowflake slowed in its long, tumbling fall through the black. It was the kind of snow that brought children running out of their doors, made them turn their faces skyward, and spin in circles with their arms outstretched. But cold was a killer too, and that was a truth he could not afford to forget.

With his arms wrapped around her, he slowly tugged her forwards, settling her into his lap, as he sat back down by the crackling fire.

“You’ve not had your supper,” he murmured, mouth against her neck.

“I’ve little appetite.”

As he brushed an open palm against her warm thigh, she turned slightly in his hold, pressing her cheek to his bare chest, to the beating of his heart.

“Sansa,” He frowned briefly; stroking the hair from her face, now mostly dry from the heat of the fire. “I know what it is to worry over the number of grains in a store room, to fear for and to face what comes when they run dry… But believe me, it shall not come to that, not here, not this time.”

She huffed out a wet laugh, eyes damp as she met his determined stare.

“I used to be so _spoiled_ , so…” She shook her head, voice thick. “Now, well…now all is different. There are mouths to feed, repairs still to be made, accounts to be settled. And I—I cannot be that silly little bird anymore. _Gods,”_ she scoffed derisively, “how you would have hated her.”

“I did not know you then,” he countered coolly, “or you me. So I find it fruitless to speculate on such things.” He paused, drawing her a little closer, bare skin flushed and warmed by the fire. “Besides, I love you now, as you are, and as however you will be come tomorrow, and the day after that…and so on and so forth. Come, will that not do for you?”

“It does very well, my lord.” _Good, a smile at last._

“Well then,” he replied, hefting her suddenly from his lap and lightly swatting at her rear, “if you have any regard for me in return you will dress yourself and come eat your supper.”

That evening they ate quietly in their rooms: a stew of rabbit cooked in cider with leeks and hedge garlic, buttered yellow turnips and lemon water to drink. And as they ate, they watched from the window the evening move into the night: the dark settling like a fur on every object, the dropping snow, the quick adroit movements of the birds between trees.

When at last they made for bed, he drew her in gently, to stand between his knees as he sat upon the bed. He kissed her softly, once on each breast, and then laid his head between them, his breath coming warm against the skin beneath her nightgown, her hands resting against his head. Then once more she was stripped bare, and once more he hauled her into his arms, his mouth moving downwards. A spot within her fluttered at his touch, at the damp heated press, fragile like a bird’s wing, but building. With the hum of his voice, throaty and hushed, he coaxed her forward, till she let out her wolf-proud cry.

Beneath the furs, her hands found his skin, revealing and caressing. Eager to posses, her blunt nails bit against his back, as his pressed into her, as their breaths stuttered, gasps marrying. Like a vine she wound herself around him, her hips craving every coming thrust. And like a desperate thing he drew her in, fingers tangling in her hair, her living warmth a part of him.

***

Come morning the snow had stopped falling. It now lay everywhere in voluminous drifts, so soft and light that nothing could move trackless upon it. It kept all marks. Even loose leaves that had dropped onto the snow from the godswood had settled down into depressions of themselves. As she walked, it flattened and creaked beneath her booted feet. Around her, the courtyard’s few sounds were muffled, as though their edges had been rounded off.

Since waking, the sky had been clear and pale, the light taking on a cold brightness from the settled snow. There was a bite to the air, too, and Sansa was glad for her thick woollen stockings and heavy cloak. Faintly, not too far off, she could smell wood smoke wafting in from the kitchen chimney, perhaps warming pinecones by the open hearth, or roasting partridges for the midday meal. With a contented smile, she let the snow float around her, turning her face to the sky, as though she were a child, and sticking out her tongue to catch the flakes. She had meant to head to the godswood, to pray, but instead found herself transfixed. The swirl overhead was dizzying and she began to spin slowly in place, allowing herself this brief childish pleasure. Stopping, she paused to watch the snow settle upon the fur collar of her cloak. For a moment, she studied the pattern of a single starry flake, before it melted into the darkness of the pelt. _Here, and then gone._

Around her the snow deepened, yet to be fully shovelled away so that the yard might be clear for sword practice. _Alone, or almost so._ She kicked at it lightly, causing it to clump together, wet and heavy. _Snowball snow._ She bent and clenched a fistful in her bare hand, smiling a sheepish _good day_ at a young stable lad who was passing by. In her hand, the snow compacted and held the shape of her cold fingers. Pulling on her fur-lined gloves, she balled some snow together, patting and forming it as she mused absently upon the state of their stores of barley and rye, upon the number of lemons in the glass gardens.

It was then that she heard footsteps softly crunching behind her, causing her to turn and look up to see her kingly husband leaving the Great Keep. Noticing her, he paused his heavy strides; storm blue eyes squinting back at her. Around them the noonday sun was sparkling bright against the white of the snow. _Blanket soft, clean and pure once more._

She patted the snowball thoughtfully a few more times, watching him and waiting. As he neared, she felt another childish impulse overcome her. She threw it at him, and even as the snowball left her hand, she knew it was an outlandish, _silly_ thing to do, and she wondered what would happen next.

The snowball thumped into his leg, just above the top of his boot.

He came to a halt, looked at the circle of snow left upon the leg of his breeches, and then looked up at Sansa, a mix of irritation and confusion on his stern face. But then, even as his brow stayed furrowed, a small, nearly imperceptible smile appeared at the corner of his lips. Averting his gaze, he smacked a gloved hand across his lower leg, dusting away the snow.

Sansa held her breath. Still he remained bent over, his hand down by his boots, but then, quicker than she could react, he scooped up a handful of snow and tossed a perfectly formed snowball at her.

It smacked her right in the forehead.

Stunned, she stood there motionless with her arms held limply at her sides. Neither of them spoke. The snow had begun to lightly fall again, on the tops of their heads and upon their cloaked shoulders. Sansa wiped the wet snow from her forehead and saw Stannis, red faced, his mouth open, jerk awkwardly towards her.

“I—that’s not—I had not meant to—”

At his stuttered apology, she began to laugh. Melting snow dripping down her temples, snowflakes landing on her eyelashes. She laughed and laughed until she was doubled over, and then she grabbed another handful of snow and threw it at him. He huffed out a shocked laugh of his own, quickly gathering snow in retaliation, and so more snowballs were lobbed through the air without a care for duty or propriety. Most of them fell at the other’s feet, but sometimes they softly thumped into shoulders and chests. Cheeks bright, they chased each other around the yard, dodging behind low walls and peeking out in time to see another snowball coming. The hem of Sansa’s gown dragged in the snow, now quite sodden, but she did not care. Stannis continued to chase her, a snowball in each hand. And when she tripped and fell, when he ran to meet her, she flung loose snow at him, all the time laughing, whilst he smiled bemusedly back at her. _I did that. I made him smile._

Reaching down, he pulled her to her feet so that they stood chest-to-chest, panting and smiling and covered in snow. Sansa pressed her face into the hollow of his damp neck and he wrapped his arms, thick with his furred cloak, around her shoulders. They stood that way for a while, letting the snow fall down upon them, uncaring of the odd servant who cast them knowing looks, hurrying towards the kitchens for the warmth of its blazing hearth.

After a little while, Stannis pulled away, brushing the snow from her hair, taking her cheek in his gloved hand. With his thumb, he wiped the melted snow from beneath her eye. Then, tipping his head forward, he rested his brow against hers, breath warm against her face and eyelashes feather light. Standing still, she became aware of the cold through her damp clothes and trembled.

“Chilled?”

She shook her head, reluctantly pulling away.

“Come, let us go inside.”

She didn’t want it to end, as silly as it seemed. The quiet snow, the closeness, the careless joy. But her teeth began to chatter, and so she nodded, taking his arm when he offered it. _Winter has come and our work must go on._ Feeling fatigued, she bent her head, resting it upon his shoulder, their feet falling into step. _But I thank the gods that I am standing by his side, and not by myself._

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this and getting a bit carried away. Hope you guys enjoyed it!
> 
> Nerdy Sidenotes:
> 
> – It seems so incredibly obvious, but I did not realise pine nuts came from literal pine cones...anyway, apparently open pine cones can be shaken to dislodge the pine nuts from inside, and pine cones that are closed can be placed near a fire for a few days.   
> – Like a lot of wild berries, you shouldn’t eat rowanberries off the tree because they’re so acidic only birds can really digest them…BUT you can cook them down with a lot of sugar to make a jelly, which apparently goes very well with roast meat. So that’s what Sansa had in mind when she was collecting (before getting distracted) in the godswood. I personally think, as ornamental berries, they’re a lot prettier than holly – when I make my Christmas wreath that’s what I tend to use :)
> 
> Comments, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


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